Callie's Cowboy Read online

  “Well, go ahead,” she said when they were alone. “Tell me everything you hated about my story. Tell me I’m an opportunistic hack writer. Get it out of your system.”

  “Callie, I came to apologize. I was way out of line yesterday.”

  “Yes, you were.” She met his steady blue gaze head-on, unwilling to let him off easy. “The Record is a responsible newspaper with plenty of readers, thank you. I don’t need to entice more with sensationalism.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  To gain time, Callie pulled off her wire-rim glasses and began cleaning them with a napkin. She didn’t know quite what to make of Sam’s apology. Was it sincere, or did he have an angle?

  “You still wear glasses to make you look older?” he asked. “I figured you’d have gotten over that by now.”

  “The joke was on me. A couple of years ago I found out I’m nearsighted. These are prescription.”

  An awkward silence followed. She stirred sugar into her iced tea, not intending to drink it.

  “The story on Dad’s funeral was good,” Sam said abruptly. “It was everything Millicent promised and more. I even liked the picture of Deana, once I saw it.”

  “Thank you.” Callie kept her voice neutral, though she was secretly pleased to know that her agonizing hadn’t been for nothing. She’d fluctuated between running Deana’s picture or a more generic wide-angle shot of the whole family. She’d finally decided the shot of Deana was in no way offensive or overly melodramatic. The story and picture had run on page three of the Metropolitan section.

  “In fact, Mother wants to know if she can get a copy of the photo,” Sam continued. “She thought it might be a nice keepsake for Deana, something to remember her grandfather by. I’ll pay you.” He reached for his wallet.

  Callie bristled. “I’ll be happy to send you a print, but payment isn’t necessary.”

  “In that case, how about dinner?”

  Callie’s breath caught in her throat until Sam added, “Mother’s doing up a pot roast Thursday night, and she said she’d love to have you.”

  Callie slowly released her breath. She should have known better than to think, even for an instant, that Sam would ask her out on a date. “I don’t want to impose so soon after—”

  “She wants you to come. She’s been cooking ever since … that day, even though the fridge is full of food the neighbors and friends have brought. She says cooking keeps her mind off things.”

  And a table full of family and guests probably disguised the fact that a certain chair was empty, Callie couldn’t help thinking. She had fond memories of all those dinners she’d eaten at the Sangers’ house. Johnny had always sat to Sam’s immediate right during meals at the small kitchen table. And Sam had always complained—good-naturedly—because his father’s elbow was in Sam’s face as they ate. It was a standing joke.

  Her heart suddenly filled with emotion at the bleak look on Sam’s face. He really was grieving, as Millicent had said. Sam had never been one to show his feelings, but in this instant, no matter how hard he tried to keep his sadness hidden, it flowed out of him.

  She couldn’t seem to say no to him. She had no idea why Beverly Sanger would insist that Callie come to dinner, but she didn’t think it had been Sam’s idea.

  “Will it bother you if I come?” she asked. “If you’d rather I stay away—”

  “I’d like you to come. It’s the least I can do to make up for the things I said yesterday.”

  “Then I’ll come. Can I bring anything besides the picture?”

  He shook his head. “Mother’s always been real fond of you. I’m sure just having you around will be like a tonic for her.”

  Sam’s pie arrived. He took a couple of bites without comment. Then, despite the fact that the Pie Pantry served the best homemade desserts in the county, he pushed his plate aside and scooted out of the booth.

  “See you Thursday, around seven.” He donned his beige felt Stetson, pulled some money out of his jeans pocket, laid it on the table, and left: without further comment.

  Callie watched him go, admiring the fit of worn denim on his backside despite herself. He’d filled out some since she’d last seen him, exchanging his thin, wiry build for one that was still lean but well muscled.

  “Lean and mean,” she murmured, knowing the phrase wasn’t accurate. Sam wasn’t the least bit mean, but he did know what he wanted out of life and he usually got it.

  She could only hope he never decided he wanted her again. As teenagers they’d done their share of kissing and caressing, sometimes with their clothes more off than on. But Callie had been afraid to consummate their mutual desire. She’d thought they were too young, their future too uncertain. She’d worried about everything from her “reputation” to unplanned pregnancies. Sam, though he’d been burning to make love to her, had respected her wishes.

  But she’d always wondered.

  As an adult woman, she wasn’t sure she would have the same qualms she’d had eight years ago. That was one temptation she hoped she never had to face.

  TWO

  Callie turned down the Sangers’ street, her chest tight with anticipation. The neighborhood looked the same as always—fences in need of mending, fields either overgrown or overgrazed, potholes galore. There was just something about this pocket of land that wasn’t conducive to farming, yet the owners here hung on, many of them for generations.

  The Sangers had one of the nicest farms in the area, though that wasn’t saying much. But at least the fences were standing and the big frame house looked as if someone had painted it in recent memory. Johnny Sanger might not have earned a fortune in his life, but what little he’d had, he’d taken care of. The front yard was neatly landscaped, with hardly a single fall leaf to mar the still-green grass. He must have worked daily on the yard right up until his death.

  Callie parked her car between a rented sedan—Sam’s, no doubt—and a disreputable-looking brown pickup. A dog’s barking greeted her as she rang the bell.

  Callie was surprised to hear a dog inside the house. Johnny Sanger had never allowed dogs inside—another symptom of his fastidiousness.

  Beverly opened the door and greeted Callie with a brittle smile. “Come in, sweetie, come in. Here, let me take that—oh, for us?” She indicated a basket Callie held, heaped high with pecans and tied with a red bow.

  “I thought you could freeze them until you’re ready to do your next round of baking.” Callie also held an envelope containing her photo of Deana, which she placed on a table in the entry hall. The dog, a collie, put her nose into the basket, and Callie petted her then shooed her away.

  Beverly closed the door and took Callie’s jacket, hanging it on a hook inside the coat closet. “Oh, heavens, the baking never ends around here. Come in, come in, and let’s have a visit while we’re still alone. Sam’s out tending the chickens.” They settled onto the couch, and Beverly cleared her throat nervously. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. I tried to discuss it with Sam, but he shut me up real quick. Doesn’t want to hear a word.”

  “What is it, Bev?”

  “It’s about Johnny. About the police’s ruling on his death. I’m having a very hard time with it.”

  “Well, that’s only natural. No one wants to believe their husband—”

  “It’s not just that I can’t accept it. I flat out don’t believe it.”

  Callie’s skin prickled. “Why’s that?”

  Beverly glanced from side to side, as if she was making sure no one would overhear. “I feel like I’m being objective now, not emotional,” she assured Callie, “You know I found Johnny in his office. The place looked like a tornado had hit it. I simply can’t believe Johnny would leave his office that way, I don’t care how much he’d been drinking or how despondent he was.”

  Callie reluctantly nodded. “I saw the police photos. I was surprised at the mess too. But we can’t really know what was going through his head.”

  “They say he
did it for the life insurance, because we had so many debts, and by dying, he’d be sure I was set for life. That’s even harder to believe.”

  “But the policy was found sitting out on the desk,” Callie reasoned, recalling the police report. “He must have taken it out and read it that day for a reason.”

  “But why? Why that day? It doesn’t make any sense. The farm was doing fine this year—so well, in fact, that we tore up the check Sam sent us. He usually helps us out once or twice a year, whenever he has some spare cash. But for the first time we didn’t need it. So this business of Johnny being all upset because we were broke is nonsense.”

  “Maybe there was another reason,” Callie said. “He could have been upset about something else.”

  “But what?”

  “Health problems?” Callie suggested.

  “They did an autopsy. He was fit as a fiddle. And we weren’t having marital problems, either. Oh, the police asked me that first thing. Not that we had a perfect marriage, but who does?”

  Callie was at a loss. “You know, Beverly, if it wasn’t suicide, the alternative isn’t any more pleasant.”

  Beverly nodded grimly. “I know. I guess it’s not very likely that a stranger broke in, murdered Johnny, and faked his suicide.”

  “Possible, but not likely,” Callie agreed. She knew the statistics. Most murders were committed by people known to the victims.

  Suddenly Beverly looked at Callie with desperate eyes. “I have to know, Callie. I have to know if my son, my flesh and blood, is a murderer.” She covered her face. “I’m so ashamed that the thought even crosses my mind. But with Will’s history and all …”

  Callie laid a hand on Bev’s shoulder. The possibility had nibbled at the edges of her mind too. Will Sanger’s arrest record was impressive, though he’d never shown a penchant for violent crime.

  “The police won’t listen to me,” Beverly said with a sigh. “They just think I’m a hysterical woman who can’t accept the obvious.”

  “Maybe you should try again.”

  Beverly shook her head emphatically. “No. Not unless I have something more to tell them than just my gut feelings. And it wouldn’t be fair to Will to accuse him without more evidence.”

  Uh-oh. Callie had a feeling she knew what was coming next. Beverly’s dinner invitation suddenly made more sense. “Beverly, I hope you don’t want me to—”

  “But you’re so good at it! I’ve been reading your stories in the newspaper for years now. You know how to get to the heart of any crime—not just because you see and record the facts, but because you can read people. You know what makes them tick. And I know you’ve worked with the police in the past.”

  Callie sighed and nodded. She couldn’t seem to say no to her friend. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. If I find out anything helpful to you, I’ll tell you.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. You don’t know what it means to me.” Beverly’s focus shifted to the basket of pecans. “Are these from your mom’s trees?”

  Callie nodded as they both stood up, as if in unspoken agreement that official business was finished, and headed for the kitchen. “New crop. Gathered this morning.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Callie. Those trees always produced the sweetest nuts in the county. My Johnny just loves—loved—” Beverly faltered, halting midstep.

  “It’s okay, Beverly. You don’t have to pretend or be brave in front of me.”

  “My lands, who will eat my pecan pie?” Beverly said on a sob. “It was his favorite. Neither of my boys care for it much.”

  “Then make pecan shortbread cookies instead.” Callie felt woefully inadequate for this task. She remembered when she’d lost her own father, and how she’d felt powerless to help her mother through the ordeal. She felt the same sense of helplessness now. Still, she tried. “You can always donate your extra pies and things to the Lions Club bake sale.” Inwardly, Callie winced. Why had she thought pecans were such an inspired gift?

  The collie shifted from one paw to another, looking up anxiously at her mistress.

  Beverly sniffled loudly as she searched her apron pockets for a tissue. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea. Johnny would like for his pies to go to a worthy cause. He was always thinking of other people. That’s why I just can’t understand—” This time she broke down completely.

  Callie, feeling a bit panicky, put her arm around Beverly’s frail shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Bev. I know it hurts so much now—” But Callie didn’t know. She’d never lost a spouse. The only thing that had come close was when she’d learned that Sam had married and she’d realized he was out of her reach forever. She’d cried every night for two weeks. How much more horrible it must be to lose your husband to a senseless act of violence.

  Sam chose that moment to enter the living room. He took one look at his grief-stricken mother, then cast a faintly accusing look at Callie. “Mom?”

  Callie stepped out of the way so that Sam could offer his own comfort. She shouldn’t have come. She was just upsetting things.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Sam crooned. “Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”

  Callie felt tears of frustration pressing at the back of her eyes, caused not only by Beverly’s distress, but by the unspoken censure reflected in Sam’s expression. “I brought pecans,” she confessed. “I didn’t realize pecan pie was Johnny’s favorite.”

  Beverly rapidly pulled herself together. “Oh, Callie, you didn’t do anything wrong.” The sentence was punctuated by a hiccup. “It was a very thoughtful gift, and I love that you took the time to put together something from your family, from your heart. But Sam can tell you, the least little thing sets me off.”

  “I guess we’re all a little raw,” Sam mumbled. “It’s easy to overreact. Sorry.”

  Callie nodded her acceptance of the grudging apology, wishing that she could stop rubbing him the wrong way. But then, she hadn’t come here to curry favor with Sam. She wanted to help, to somehow ease the hurt that had been inflicted on this already troubled family. Seeing the haunted look in his eyes, she didn’t believe she could possibly succeed.

  “I’ll just, um, put these somewhere.” She started to ease her way toward the kitchen door.

  Beverly halted her by touching her shoulder. “No, give them to Sam.” She dried the last of her tears with the corner of her apron and looked up at her son. “You might as well start shelling these. I’ll get working on those pies right away. There’s a bake sale at the Baptist church next weekend. Won’t they be surprised to get a donated pie from a Methodist?” She tittered at her own joke, then nudged Callie toward the kitchen. “You don’t mind keeping me company while I work on dinner, do you?”

  “No, and I’d love to help, if you have something a kitchen klutz can handle.” She gave a backward glance at Sam, realizing as she did that she was hungry for the sight of him. She wished she could linger in the living room a few more minutes, just to drink in that sun-streaked hair and bronzed skin, the broad shoulders, the slim, cowboy’s hips encased in jeans.

  He gazed back at her, holding the basket of pecans like it was some object from another planet, a perplexed look on his face. And something else. Was that a flicker of desire she’d seen in his eyes? Some vestige of the fire that had once burned between them like a white-hot blowtorch?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she thought with a shake of her head as she moved into the kitchen with Beverly.

  The kitchen smelled wonderful, like the blend of a hundred mouthwatering fragrances from countless years of home cooking. “Mmm, what’s on the menu?” she asked. “Sam said something about pot roast?” To her discomfort, Sam followed them into the kitchen. He grabbed a nutcracker from a drawer, sat down at the roomy kitchen table, and began shelling the pecans without comment.

  “Changed my mind,” Beverly replied. “Now it’s roast chicken and mashed potatoes, and some green beans I canned this summer.”

  “Sounds like heaven to me. Ever since I’ve been living on my own, all I ha
ve time for is frozen stuff and fast food.”

  “Well, I expect that’s normal for a career girl like yourself.”

  Callie had to struggle to keep from looking at Sam. Her “career” had always been a sore subject between them. When she’d refused to drop everything and move to Nevada with him, he’d accused her of putting fame and fortune and professional aims ahead of love and personal goals. And maybe she had. But so had he. He hadn’t been willing to give up his precious ranch for her.

  Granted, a fifty-thousand-acre cattle spread was a little different than an internship at a small-town daily newspaper. Roundrock was more of a family legacy. But she figured it wasn’t the size of the professional goal that mattered, it was the principle of the. thing. He’d acted as if her job, her aspirations, were insignificant fluff.

  “I can do that,” Callie volunteered when Beverly began scrubbing potatoes.

  “Exactly what I had in mind. The peeler is in that top drawer over there, beside the oven. I figure even the worst kind of kitchen klutz can peel potatoes. Sam, if you’re going to hang around in the kitchen, why don’t you help peel.”

  “I thought you wanted me to shell pecans,” he said gruffly.

  “Whatever you prefer,” Beverly responded mildly. “Although if the only thing you’re going to contribute to the conversation is scowls and throat clearing, I’d just as soon you went somewhere else.”

  Callie tensed, and for a moment it felt like her heart had stopped beating. She loved Beverly, but she wished the older woman wouldn’t push the matter. She didn’t want to be a source of conflict between Sam and his mother.

  “I wasn’t aware that I was scowling.” Sam looked straight at Callie. “But if I’m making anyone uncomfortable, I’ll leave.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” Callie blurted out, then could have bitten out her own tongue. She wanted him to leave! she told herself. “Please, Sam, stay. I can handle the potatoes if you’ll do the pecans. I’m looking forward to that pecan pie.”

  “Well, at least someone is,” Beverly said, a mischievous smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “So, Callie, what’s been going on at the paper these days?”